


the first time/the last time

by winchestersinthedrift (vaneharriet)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, PWP, Smut, Young Dean Winchester, and then S10 Dean, but not at the same time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3300716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaneharriet/pseuds/winchestersinthedrift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Inspired by this gifset: http://green-circles.tumblr.com/post/103427241672/dark-angel-2001-supernatural-2014</p>
    </blockquote>





	the first time/the last time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lisbethsalandrr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisbethsalandrr/gifts).



> Inspired by this gifset: http://green-circles.tumblr.com/post/103427241672/dark-angel-2001-supernatural-2014

The first time you fucked Dean Winchester, he was 21 with candy eyes and perfect swollen lips and he gave off a kind of breezy roughhouse enjoyment of everything he did - smoking bongs or pounding whisky or walking the ridgepole of a roof or taking off on long weekends and coming back bruised and smirking with bashed-in knuckles. When he eye-fucked you across a keg party kitchen and you took him to the laundry room and locked the door and straddled him on a pile of Bobby Walker's wifebeaters he was the same: heady volatility running instead of blood, all engine grease and battered knuckles and jeans that rode low over his Calvin Kleins. When you teased him, made him wait while you undressed, he sat wracked and quivering, barely in control, the long veins in his forearms popped out and his jaw working hard under eyes that never left you, and then he broke and pulled you down to him and kissed your cunt with perfect swollen lips and laughed up at you in easy adoration when you came on top of him.

The second time it wasn't so much that you fucked Dean Winchester as that he fucked you, and damned if you didn't like it. He ordered a double whiskey at the hotel bar and you thought he wouldn't remember you, he hadn't been around much for ten years and your business suit wasn't much like those cutoffs and bikini top, but he looked up and caught your eye and the familiar smirk cracked across the lines of his jaw. His skin had settled closer over the bones of his face and the open-faced sensuality of the twenty-one-year-old had faded, in its place a cipher of long lines carved through stubble and his musk like sex and whiskey and hot metal. Back in the hotel room he took his time, this no easy fuck in the laundry but a relentless dismantling of your self-possession over the bed and the floor and the formica table of the tiny kitchenette. His hands were calloused and knowing, used to shotguns quickly loaded and bullets shot clean home and entangling devils, and now they took everything he wanted, your pleasure and his own, and that was how it was the second time.


End file.
